


My Queen

by RogerTaylorCanRawMe



Series: Queen One-Shots [11]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 70's roger is a sub, 80's roger is a total daddy, F/M, Sub!Roger, daddy dom!roger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 21:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17433845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerTaylorCanRawMe/pseuds/RogerTaylorCanRawMe
Summary: You and Roger met when his band had an argument at the studio around the corner from your flat. In the month that he was there, he visited you many times, while you offered him an outlet for his frustrations.





	My Queen

**Author's Note:**

> This is just for fun, guys. I did a little post on my tumblr about how 70's Roger is definitely a sub, and how 80's Roger is absolute Daddy material. I wanted to keep this nice and short though, so I haven't gone into too much detail, but I can do more oneshots for either or.
> 
> I'll post part two of this tomorrow.

Roger shivered as he sank below the bubbles. When he reached the bottom of the tub, he seemed to spring up again. “Fuck!”

“Does it hurt, baby?” You asked, propping your chin against the edge.

Roger pouted, running his hand through his hair.

You took that hand in your’s and gave it a gentle kiss. “You were so good earlier.”

Roger shrugged, giving you a small smile. “I think it’s the first time I’ve made it to twenty with your belt.”

“I’m so proud of you, my darling,” you said, stroking his jaw. He seemed to melt into your touch, nuzzling into your hand, giving you a big sigh.

You and Roger had been doing this for a month now. He found you late one night at your local, knocking back drinks with your friends. After storming off from his band’s rehearsal space after an argument, he needed some time alone. Or a way of working out his frustrations.

The pair of you clicked instantly, but Roger got more than he bargained for when you brought him back to your flat. He was filled with fire: a robust and aggressive urge, dripping filth in your ear. But what reeled him in was your reaction to that.

So used to women giving in to him, you did the unthinkable. You pushed back. Fierce and formidable, you made sure that it was all on your terms. You remembered that first night so clearly.

With Roger backed up against the wall, your hand already stroking Roger’s cock through his underwear, you told him, “you’re going to do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand, Rogie?”

“Yes,” he sighed, looking down at you through his eyelashes. “My Queen.”

You could have crumbled there and then, allowing him to have his way with you. But what fun would that have been? Another meaningless shag for him. Something lacklustre for you. No, you were going to give him what he deserved. “Are you going to be a good boy for me, Rogie?” you asked, yanking down his jeans and his underwear. Your hand was straight back on him. Your lips flitted over his jawline, waiting for him to answer.

A sharp nip on his neck had him talking again. “Yes, Queen. I’ll be such a good boy for you,” he gasped. “I don’t think I can! Oh god, I’m so sorry. Slow down.” He was close. You could feel it in the way his grip on your waist tightened. The way his hips seemed to twitch.

“Who’s in charge, Rogie?” you goaded, pumping your hand around his cock, tightening your grip. “Are you going to come?”

Roger nodded. “Yes, Queen.”

You tutted. “And you didn’t even think to ask for permission?”

“But I need-”

“Oh you don’t need to,” you said, drawing out each slow stroke now. “You want to, Rogie. And you’ve got absolutely no self-control, do you?”

“No,” he whimpered.

“What do we do when we want to come?” you asked, speeding up again. You were determined to tease him until the very last second. A second too long.

Roger slumped against the wall, as he coated your hand in a hot, sticky load. His cheeks were flushed, eyes screwed shut.

You eyed your hand, and then Roger, smirking at him. “I think we’re going to need to teach you some self-control.”

His eyes shot open at that sentence.

He didn’t make it past three strokes of your strap before he lost count. You lost count of how many times you had to go back to number one.

But he quickly built up a tolerance.

Every time his band argued in the studio, he would be knocking at your door. This was the perfect outlet for him.

“I’m going to miss you, My Queen,” Roger grinned, lunging through the bubbled to kiss your nose.

“You’ll keep in touch, though, won’t you, Rogie?” You asked, nose to nose with him, weaving your fingers through his thick mane of hair.

“I’ll write to you all the time, I promise.”

* * *

 

That was nearly a decade ago, and your enjoyment of topping whiny little rockstars was over. You hadn’t heard from him in six years. You assumed that the band had taken him all around the world and perhaps even changed him enough that his attachment to you dwindled. It didn’t keep you up at night, but you still had a place in your heart for him.

You were busy, puttering around the same poky flat where you had always lived — fixing things that had broken — giving it a lick of paint now and again. Small repairs here and there. It was the turn of your coffee table.  
You had just finished taking its old, broken legs off to put on new ones. There was a knock at your door. Dusty denim overalls on, and your hair matted into a bun, you weren’t in any state for visitors.

Another knock. Louder, this time.

“Alright, hold your horses!” you shouted, squinting at the vague outline in the glass panel. “I’m coming.” Flinging open the door, you couldn’t believe your eyes. But the pang of hurt in your stomach was a dead giveaway. “Rogie?”


End file.
